


Mess of Thought

by Dapperscript



Series: (Drabbles) Your Eyes Say So Much To Me [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Injury Recovery, Introspection, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 14:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11785050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dapperscript/pseuds/Dapperscript
Summary: A temporary calm and tentative hope. Hannibal's musing post-fall.[Standalone/drabble]





	Mess of Thought

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merrythoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/gifts).



> Little drabble because I've been trying to actually write more and Merry was kind enough to throw a bunch of prompts at me.
> 
> Takes place before the beginning of ['Do You Feel The Hunger'.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9529106)

Will is silent and still as death on the poorly-made bed. The only sign of his continued living is the almost-imperceptible rise and fall of his chest and the faint, intermittent wheeze to his breathing.

Listening to him becomes an exercise in mindfulness as Hannibal sits in an old, heavy chair beside the bed, too weak to stand unassisted but too stubborn to leave Will’s side.

Somewhere downstairs, Chiyoh is moving, cleaning, and taking stock as Hannibal had told her to after she’d finished changing the bandages around his abdomen. She'd been reluctant to leave his side, as she has been the few days they've been here, but the farmhouse is in need of small repairs and a drastic cleaning to make it habitable. It had been a good find on such short notice, but speed does not always equal quality. So to noted protests, she'd left him to tend to Will on his own, leaving to sort out the ground floor and the kitchen in order to make it usable. 

Hannibal is aware he owes Chiyoh his life. Yet more importantly, he owes her Will’s life. That she had been there to help Hannibal drag them from the pounding Atlantic and had clashed antlers with him over treating his injuries while he’d treated Will’s is likely the only reason the two of them are still alive. Hannibal knows with crystal clarity that he would have only acted to help himself in the event that Will's life had been threatened by his unconsciousness. He’d been wild, forcing his hands steady, working quickly to staunch bleeding as Chiyoh had done the same to him under his own instructions. He’d maintained consciousness and survived, and Will had lived because of it.

Hannibal’s gaze drifts to Will, focusing on the mess of his hair, stiff with salt from the sea. He’s pale even in the dark, only the glow of the moon outside and a flickering bedside lamp to illuminate him to Hannibal’s eyes.

Will Graham had tried to kill them both. The thought feels heavy and sharp in Hannibal’s mind, like a piece of rebar through his skull. It feels like a dream, only half-remembered. A bloodied waltz, a violent courtship, coming together under the beauty of a shared kill. Will had been so warm in Hannibal’s arms, had clung to him with such simple honesty that at the time, he would have done anything to freeze the moment forever, to live and breathe blood and pain and thundering heartbeats and _Will_.

Even now Hannibal is too exhausted to feel the anger under the surface, to feel the hurt it would make sense to feel. Even after Will’s attempt to kill them both, he still loves this man.

His hand weakly reaches over and finds Will’s unbandaged cheek. His stubble is thick. It’s been a week since Will had taken them from the top of the bluff. A four-day boat ride along the edges of the Atlantic, up past New York and curling around Prince Edward Island in order to land along Quebec’s silent shores. The scratch of Will’s stubble - almost a beard - is a curious sensation, rough along Hannibal’s fingers. He’ll need to shave Will when his hands can handle it, just as he’ll need to shave himself. A mundane thought for a moment that is far from mundane.

Hannibal fits his palm along the sharp edge of Will’s jaw, his last three fingers tucked behind Will’s ear, his index finger stroking the skin in front of it, and his thumb carefully stroking over Will’s cheek. How long has it been since Hannibal has touched him like this? It feels like a lifetime, and that Will is not awake to experience it with him is maddening.

He’s woken sporadically, feverish, mindless, remaining awake only long enough for Hannibal to coax medication and water and soft foods into his mouth. He's been pliant under Hannibal's hands, turning to his other side in order to keep the water contained despite the deep stab to his cheek. Hannibal has fielded moans of pain with soft, soothing sounds. More than once, he's assisted Will in swallowing with gentle massages to his throat. To his relief, Will has torn no stitches to his cheek, though the cut to his tongue has been most difficult to field. It's taken Hannibal time and patience and strength he hardly has, but he's fed Will - from a spoon, with his own fingers when necessary - and he has no plans to stop until Will Graham is himself again. Right now he's hardly Will, but that he’s _alive_ should be enough.

If Will had had his way, neither of them would be.

It’s a bitter thought, one that will one day lift its head from the nest, spread great, sharp wings and leap from its own cliff to strike Hannibal down. For now, with Will a feverish, still mess against cheap cotton sheets, Hannibal only feels relief.

Temporary insanity? He has no idea. Is Will going to try and kill himself again? Kill them both? There’s no way of knowing. The only difference is that now Hannibal has a chance.

Perhaps the teacup will never gather itself back together, but Hannibal has been fortunate enough to be handed another. This one he cradles. He’ll use both hands to support its base and take care to not let it crash upon the floor.

Second chances are not gifted to many, and regardless of where this goes, Hannibal has had three long years to realize that he would much rather navigate his way through pain and confusion and rage _with_ Will than without him.

His thumb brushes over dry, cracked lips and Hannibal aches but doesn’t move from his seat in the chair. Instead he just strokes over Will’s cheek again and focuses everything he is - all his pain and resentment and bitterness and relief - on the touch. Under his hand, Will shifts, but doesn't wake.

When Will eventually wakes, complications will arise. For now, Hannibal merely touches him and takes comfort in the warmth under his hand that tells him Will is still living. There is nothing more important right now than recovery. They can handle everything else later, together.


End file.
